A Room Of Our Own!

Sleazeball of the Year

August 4, 2007

Lauren Collins in the August 6, 2007 edition of The New Yorker introduces readers to Sleazeball-Who-Must-Not-be-Named because any publicity is good publicity in his world, in her brief entry, “On the Docket/Hey, LA-A-A-DIES!” (The Talk of the Town). Mr. Sleaze is crying in a lawsuit that men are charged more than women are on Ladies’ Nights and it is so unfair to his barren pockets. Men need all the money they can get for fighting against child-custody laws, circumcision, getting the word out that 5% of females have borderline personality disorders and to be manipulated into buying drinks for their prey. An attorney himself, I am reminded of that stupid judge who wanted a gazillion dollars from the immigrant dry cleaners who temporally lost his pants. Thankfully, the judge lost his suit, and if he has a drop of humility left, he is feeling like a complete idiot. In this case, Sleazeball is mumbling something about invoking his Fourteenth Amendment rights.

Apparently, the initial stages of raping women should be more cost effective for men. Mr. Sleazeball reveals his predatory tactics, “‘You sort of cut the person you’re after from the herd.”’ You know, the way hyenas select prey, by stalking, skulking, then pouncing. Whether women should pay more, less or the same is neither here or there for now, because that assertion is problematic in itself and needs unpacking. Should women be charged the same as men for any goods, including entertainment when women are systematically underpaid? In addition, should women play pawn, paying less for the opportunity to be exploited by the establishment, the nightclub? That is what the nightclub essentially is doing when charging women less, hoping to bring in women, not for the women to have fun with their friends but to act as objects for the menz to ogle at and hit on. Yes, the words “hit on” is used by Mr. Sleaze. Sleazeball says it when talking to Collins, well he does not say hit on women, but uses the word girl(s) (throughout, women are never identified as women by Sleazy but as girls) when complaining about the loud music, “‘When I hit on a girl, I need to be able to talk to her’” [and she needs to be able to see my fake blue eyes, rubbery grin, and graying buzz I appropriated from Col. Frank Fitts, USMC]. Therefore, as you see, arguing an appropriate rate requires further consideration.

Mr. Slime goes on to say what men could do with the extra cash when clubs decide to charge women more. He thinks his lawsuit will bring about a change that will lower the admission for men as it increases the cover for women. What an idiot. The club will charge what they think they can charge. How he jumps to the conclusion that charging women more will give men more money is left unanswered, one can say it simply is his wishful assumption. Of course, that is what happens with zero sum mentalities. One person’s lost is another person’s gain. Anyway, he envisions that men will use the extra dollars to get women drunk, but not by the menz’ own free will, but by those maniupulating women who will hone in on the poor menz extra ten or fifteen dollars and not stop until every penny is guzzled down. This will by default lead to a night of drunken sex in which the next morning she will charge rape.

“What I think will happen,” he said, “is that clubs will reduce the price for guys and increase it for girls, Every guy will have ten or fifteen more dollars in his pocket, which the girls will then manipulate into getting more drinks out of him. If they drink more, they’ll have more fun, and so will us guys. And then when she wakes up in the morning she’ll be able to do what she always does: blame the man.”

Funny how women drinking more will guarantee fun for the guys yet, he mentions nothing about men drinking more to ensure that fun.

My Goddess, Mr. Slimeworm sounds so creepy. I am having flashbacks to my youth when the old guy who pushed himself on a woman the second she was without a dance partner. He grossed everyone in the club out. Being a Vietnam era throwback, Mr. Slimy has no shame admitting how he dodged the draft, not on moral principle however, but so he could stay back and get in on the action he would possibly miss, “‘I look around,’ he said, recalling his college years, ‘and there are all these girls walking around in see-through shirts and having sex whenever they want to, and there I am, dodging the draft.’” A real poster boy for the chicken hawks.

If I did not physically have the copy of The New Yorker quoting this Sleazeball, I would think he was a character in a piece written for The Onion.

Funny how women drinking more will guarantee fun for the guys yet, he mentions nothing about men drinking more to ensure that fun.

I think his quotes clearly establish him as a potential rapist. It should be amazing when men have the nerve to say things like this out loud, but I’ve heard many men utter such arguments. Reminds me of the golden classic – “Just sit back and enjoy it.”

Comments are closed.

The Reviews Flow In:

The fun-est and sanest place on the internet!

AROOO: "... no blowjobs..."

"AROOO: A blog where women are not called bitches, any form of cunt, or contaminated." ---TFKG

“AROOO: A blog far too principled to be popular.” ---Anonymous

“AROOO, too sexy for AROOO!”---The judges of, "What is sexy."

“Ye miserable, crawling worms, are ye here again, then? Have ye come like Nimshi, son Rehoboam, secretly out of yer doomed houses to hear what’s comin’ to ye? Have ye come, old and young, sick and well, matrons and virgins (if there is any virgins among ye, which is not likely, the world bein’ in the wicked state it is), old men and young lads, to hear me tellin’ o’ the great crimson lickin’ flames o’ hell fire?
Aye, ye’ve come,
Dozens of ye. Hundreds of ye. Like rats to a granary. Like field-mice when there’s harvest home. And what good will it do ye?
Ye’re all damned!
Damned!
Oh, do ye ever stop to think what that word means when ye use it every day, so lightly, o’ yer wicked lives? No. Ye doan’t. Ye never stop to think what anything means, do ye? Well, I’ll tell ye. It means endless horrifyin’ torment, with yer poor sinful bodies stretched out on hot gridirons in the nethermost fiery pit of hell, and demons mockin’ ye while they waves cooling jellies in front of ye, and binds ye down tighter on yer dreadful bed. Aye, an’ the air’ll be full of the stench of burnt flesh and the screams of your nearest and dearest...
Ye know, doan't ye, what it feels like when ye burn yer hand in takin’ a cake out of the oven or wi’ a match when ye’re lightin’ one of they godless cigarettes? Aye. It stings wi’ a fearful pain, doan’t it? And ye run away to clap a bit o’ butter on it to take the pain away. Ah, but’"
(an impressive pause)
"there’ll be no butter in hell! Yer whoal body will be burnin’ and stingin’ wi’ that unbearable pain, and yer blackened tongues will be stickin’ out of yer mouth, and yer cracked lips will try to scream out for a drop of water, but no sound woan’t come because yer throat is drier nor the sandy desert and yer eyes will be beatin’ like great red-hot balls against yer shrivelled eyelids....” ---Amos Starkadder, Cold Comfort Farm.

"Any time something is written against me, I not only share the sentiment but feel I could do the job far better myself. Perhaps I should advise would-be enemies to send me their grievances beforehand, with full assurance that they will receive my every aid and support. I have even secretly longed to write, under a pen name, a merciless tirade against myself."--- Jorge Luis Borges, (autobiographical essay, 1970).